Clock
by Bucken-Berry
Summary: "At that moment, an invisible clock started ticking in Elliot Stabler's head. Each time it ticked, it alerted him to the loss of another second, and of the fact that there was so little time left before he lost the man he loved, forever."
1. Worry

A/N 1: I'm back! I was super busy with end-of-semester stuff and my family moving. We had lived in the same house since I was two, but our house was about to be foreclosed so we had to move to an apartment. I sort of like it, but it doesn't feel like home yet. Anyway, I was without internet for a while, so I just sort of fell out of the habit, until now. I started working on this one, and hopefully Darkest Nights will be updated pretty soon, depending on when my muses stop distracting me with my pet snake, Skittles. LOL. This story has eventual character death and much angst, tears, and sadness, just as a warning.

A/N 2: By reading this, you agree that Bucken-Berry may, at any time, end a chapter on a cliffhanger. She will not be held responsible for any tears, depression, or sudden desire to hug the characters. Further, you agree not to murder her in her sleep, whether for the aforementioned cliffhangers, or the emotions the story may cause. If you accept these terms and conditions... enjoy! Reviews are always welcomed.

If there was one thing Elliot hated, it was feeling worried. There was the feeling itself, the way it gnawed at his insides and made his heart pound. And then there was what happened afterwards; either he was proven wrong and made to feel like an idiot, or he was proven right, which was much, much worse. Because that meant he had reason to worry, which meant that something was wrong.

Elliot had always worried about George, ever since they'd both been attacked by Mathew Brodus, though he had kept it a secret just as long. He had to- for one, he always felt slightly uncomfortable around men, and for another, he couldn't let anyone, least of all George, know that he cared, let alone like _that._ His entire world would be turned upside-down, and there was no way in hell he would be able to deal with that.

So he worried in silence, only allowing his concern to manifest in the form of anger and irritation at the good doctor, though he was more often angry at George for worrying him than for any of the other reasons he cited. He didn't like getting shrunk, but he definitely exaggerated the dislike around George; he didn't mind the sessions nearly as much as he claimed to. But it allowed him to channel his anger at George for putting himself in danger so often, so he didn't try to tone it down.

After knowing George for so many years, Elliot had learned many things about him. One of them was that a pen had a higher chance of getting sick than George did; George was so healthy that Elliot had never seen him take a single sick day during the five years they'd known each other. So when, one sweltering August day, Captain Cragen announced that they'd have to find a different Fed to profile for them, as the doc had called in sick, Elliot was immediately suspicious and- as hard as he tried not to, as much as it irritated him- worried. Not only had Huang called in sick, but it was the middle of August, when there wasn't even as much as a cold going around.

Nonetheless, he simply frowned and accepted it, ready to interrogate the doctor the moment he walked in the next day and, depending on the answers George gave, scold and lecture him at length. Excessive? Probably. Necessary to assuage his conscious? Definitely.

But George didn't show up the next day, either. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. He didn't answer his phones, either, or his email. The Feds said he was out sick, George's cell phone appeared to have been turned off, and not only was he not answering his home phone, but it seemed that it had been disconnected. That didn't sound like George at all- if Elliot knew the doctor half as well as he thought he did, George would rather have to deal with the annoyance of an endless stream of calls than alarm any one of his friends and co-workers.

Still, no one else seemed to agree. Olivia always said something along the lines of, "He said he's sick, El. Maybe he just wants to sleep without having anyone bother him."

"And maybe," Elliot retorted each time, "Maybe that's exactly why we should be bothering him."

Olivia never responded after that, leaving Elliot to fume in silence and debate over what action, if any, to take. Each time, he decided to wait.

But an entire week went by with no word from George, and by that time, Elliot was almost foaming at the mouth, ready to strangle the next person who looked at him the wrong way.

Finally, he lost it while interrogating a suspect. The man was guilty, Elliot just _knew,_but he wasn't talking. Combined with his fear for George, Elliot quickly became a ticking time bomb, and eventually, Elliot pushed the man to the ground and picked up the chair, wanting nothing more than to hit him again and again until he was a bloody mess.

It took Olivia, Fin, and Cragen all tugging at him for him to back down, and Cragen was forced to intervene. "Stabler, my office, now," he snapped.

Once they had entered his office, he said, "Elliot, go find the doc and talk to him. It's the end of the day anyway, and you aren't going to be any good here until you get it sorted out. Go. And if it happens again, you are suspended without pay."

"Thanks, Captain," Elliot said quietly, retreating from the squad room. He ran to his car, hoping to get rid of some of the pent-up energy. He felt slightly- but not significantly- better when he sat down and started the car.

He didn't have the route to George's apartment memorized like he did for Olivia, Munch, Fin, and Cragen, but he did know the actual address and he had a GPS installed in his car.

His hands were trembling from adrenaline excess, so much so that he had trouble driving, but he still managed. As he drove, he thought about George, and wondered what kind of bug George could have got for him to be affected this way. It couldn't just be the flu, but he couldn't- or wouldn't- think of the more serious alternatives.

Finally, he arrived at George's apartment building. It looked the same as he remembered; classy and upscale, to the point that Elliot felt extremely out of place. It looked closer to a hotel, really. Tall, black and sleek, with the tenant's perfectly-kept fancy cars parked outside. He parked and walked inside, feeling the heat immediately lessened by the air conditioning as he did so.

He remembered that George lived on the fourth floor, but he only remembered the route to the room, not the number itself. He sighed quietly and walked into the elevator, quickly finding himself irritated at the gentle elevator music playing. It may have been nice and soothing at the dentist's office, but it was annoying anywhere else, especially when the slow melodies contrasted so sharply with his shaking rage and anxiety.

Once the elevator opened on the fourth floor, he was unable to stop himself from speed-walking. His heart was pounding, though that was caused by nerves, not exertion.

Inhaling deeply and slowly, he knocked three times and called, "Doc? It's Elliot Stabler."

At first, he received no response. He knocked again and again, and was about to leave when he heard a nervous, hasty-sounding, "I'm coming, I'm coming! Just a minute, Detective Stabler!"

George. He sounded okay. Elliot exhaled in relief, feeling as though the world had been lifted from his shoulders- although, keeping with his dislike of worrying, he also found himself feeling quite stupid. Whatever it was appeared to be nothing at all. But then again, he reminded himself, with George it couldn't be "just nothing".

Finally, the door opened, revealing George, who had clearly been in the bath or shower. He didn't look terribly ill- he didn't look feverish, or anything like that. But he did look slightly pale, and he appeared to have lost some weight, though it could have been the pajama shirt he was wearing; Elliot was used to seeing him in sweater-vests and work shirts only, even on hot days like today.

It became clear that Elliot had interrupted something or another. Maybe George had been with a lover? He had never mentioned having anyone, but that didn't mean he was single. The thought caused him to feel somewhat sad and even jealous, but he quickly pushed it away.

He shifted guiltily, clearing his throat to apologize for interrupting a private moment and offer to leave, but George spoke before he could.

"Detective, I…" George trailed off for a moment, then bit his lip- something Elliot had never seen him do; even when he was nervous, he never gave any physical signs- and continued, "I-I'm sorry, but can you- can you please come back tomorrow? I don't mean to be rude, but…"

"Nah, I was the rude one," Elliot corrected him, frowning. "I'm the one who came here without warning and interrupted whatever you were doing. But I was…" Elliot swallowed. "We were worried about you. You never call in sick, let alone for a week, and your phones are disconnected. So I thought I should come check on you, you know…"

George gave a frown of his own, looking him over. Elliot knew that not only the visit itself, but the motivation behind it, had come completely out of left field. He had never given George any sign that he cared, let alone enough to check on him at his apartment while he was supposed to be working.

"I need to know," Elliot continued, once it was obvious that George didn't have anything to say, "Are you alright?"

George looked downwards, breathing deeply, and Elliot could tell that he was having trouble wording whatever he wanted to say. He was taking much longer to answer the question than he would have if he truly was okay, so, reluctantly, Elliot braced himself to hear something he didn't want to hear.

"Detective…" George was clearly at a loss for words. Finally he sighed, opening the door wider. "I should- and I want to- say that I am alright, but I'm afraid I really just can't- I mean, it's not like- well, it is, actually, but not this second-" He shook his head, running a hand through his hair and forcing himself to take several deep breaths. "Please… Please come in for a few minutes, so I can explain. You really weren't interrupting anything, anyway, except for me thinking about something- well, that's what I want to tell you, so you should just come in anyway- come in-"

"Doc, what's going on?" Elliot asked, alarmed. George never struggled with words. The fact that he was meant that he was, at the very least, nervous. More likely, he was full-out terrified, and that didn't sit well with Elliot. Something was terribly wrong.

"Just come inside, okay?" George requested agitatedly.

Elliot nodded silently and followed him, stepping inside the apartment. One thing became clear the second he entered; George was, indeed, still single. Not that it mattered, he tried to tell himself, but it did. He was relieved by that fact.

However, the apartment had still changed quite a lit. It still looked upscale, the way Elliot remembered, but it no longer looked thoroughly unlived-in, like it had before, and it was far from spotless. Boxes of takeout, junk food wrappers, papers, and other debris were scattered on the floor, and his files were completely disorganized on the coffee table. George had always been a neat freak, for as long as Elliot had known him, so the disarray of the apartment only furthered Elliot's worry.

"Sorry for the mess," George acknowledged, nodding at the sofa. "It's been a rough week- I haven't felt up to cleaning."

"No problem, Doc," Elliot said, sitting on the sofa and looking George over again. "My place is just as bad, if not worse."

George sat on the chair opposite the sofa and stared downwards, clearly having trouble wording whatever he wanted to say.

"Doc, what's wrong?" Elliot asked urgently.

George bit his lip. "I… well, last week, I noticed- I began to- no, I…" He sighed, pressing one hand to his forehead. A tear- Elliot assumed it to be frustration- streaked down his face. He shook his head, taking a shuddering breath before he tried again.

"Last week- no, that's not what I want to say- I just-" He took a quick breath- "They told me I- no, I- AGH!" He hit the table in anger, burying his face in his hands for several seconds.

"Doc, come on, just spit it out- just tell me, you don't need to worry about sugar-coating it or making it gentler on me or anything. Just say what's wrong; you're freaking me out!" Elliot exclaimed.

"Well, what I have to say won't help with that," George said tearfully, voice muffled by his hands.

"Stop being all cryptic about this!" Elliot said angrily. While part of him knew whatever was happening had to be much harder for George than it was for him, he was still irritated at George. Why couldn't he just say it and let Elliot stop worrying? As selfish as he felt for thinking that way, he couldn't stop it. "I'm not some kind of delicate flower. I can handle whatever it is."

"It's not you I'm worried about!" George snapped, pulling his hands away from his face and glaring at him. Now he looked angry, not just frustrated. "Believe it or not, there are people other than you who might be having a difficult time with this! Like, oh, I don't know- me! Just give me a minute to figure this shit out, for fuck's sake!" George stood and stormed towards the window, panting for breath, hands trembling from adrenaline.

The words jolted Elliot and cleared his mind, as though he'd jumped into a freezing lake. He stood up and walked towards George, pausing behind him. He debated on whether to set a hand on his shoulder, and decided against it, even though he wanted to calm George down more than anything.

"You never curse," he said quietly. "I can tell you're tied up in knots. So calm down for a minute, okay? I don't- I don't want to stress you out or anything. I'm sorry. I was just worried, but you're right, I was being selfish about this. It has to be harder for you than for me, whatever it is. Calm down a minute and try to figure out how to tell me, then just say it, okay?"

"No, I understand why you were upset- I'm taking forever to say it, and you must be alarmed by now," George murmured. "I'm really sorry, I don't want to scare you, but I can't reassure you either… Anyway, I apologize. I was out of line, cursing at you after stringing you out like that." George swallowed hard, turning around to look Elliot in the eyes.

Elliot found himself wanting to comfort George somehow, but he knew that it wouldn't be acceptable, given their current situation. "No, you weren't, Doc," he said, shaking his head. "You had every right to fly off the handle. I was being an ass."

George nodded in response and held a hand up, signaling Elliot to be quiet and let him think. Silence fell over the room for several minutes.

"Okay," George finally whispered. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Okay. I think I'm ready to tell you now."

Elliot could tell George was already getting worked up all over again. It wouldn't matter how many times he tried to calm down; he wouldn't be able to until he had said it, and even then, he still wouldn't be able to, judging from how major this appeared to be.

"Elliot, I- I'm trying not to say it bluntly, because if I do, it'll make it real for me, and I can't deal with that right now, I can't accept it yet…" Tears formed in George's eyes, and he turned away to hide them.

"I'm not going anywhere. Take as long as you need to think it out," Elliot murmured soothingly, even though his heart was pounding, and his brain was screaming at him to find out what was going on. He tried to guess what had happened, but he couldn't think of anything besides things that were too terrible for him to imagine happening to the man he cared about so much.

"Elliot, last week, I…" George bit his lip and trailed off, shaking his head and giving a quiet sob. He silently opened and closed his mouth a few more times, struggling to find the words. Then, finally, he turned to face Elliot again.

The words that came out of his mouth made Elliot wish he could go back to just being worried about George and trying to guess what was wrong.

"Elliot, I'm going to die," George whispered hopelessly. "I have less than six months to live… I'm dying."


	2. Shock, Denial, and a Vow

A/N: While you read this fic, I really recommend listening to Beethoven's 7th symphony. It matches the emotions pretty well, I think, especially the second movement.

* * *

><p>Elliot had been punched and kicked many times in his life, usually by suspects but sometimes by distraught victims or other people, and sometimes, the blows had enough force to knock him off balance. But the words George had just spoken exceeded any punch he had ever received. As soon as the words left George's mouth, Elliot reeled and stumbled backwards, staring at him in disbelief.<p>

"No- no you're not!" Elliot stammered. "You look the same as you always do. You look perfectly healthy- how could you be dying? You just- you need to find a different doctor or something, because whoever told you that has his head too far up his ass to know what he's talking about. You're fine, you just need to get someone to tell you the first guy was wrong, and you aren't going to die..."

By the time he had finished speaking, it was painfully clear that he was trying to convince himself as much as George. Elliot's eyes became wet, though he managed to hide the tears- for now.

George gave what was supposed to be a bitter laugh, but instead became a hopeless sob. "Don't you think I've already thought that? I kept myself in denial as long as I could, before I realized that lying to myself was foolish. I already told myself everything you just said, and the first thing I did when the doctor told me was go for a second opinion. And a third. And a fourth; from one of my best friends who is on his way to becoming world-renowned. All of them except for my friend said the first doctor was actually being generous when he said I had six months left. My friend didn't say anything at all, though, because he was too busy trying to deny it himself- but his silence said everything." George bit his lip, looking downwards to avert Elliot's gaze.

"So that's what you've been doing all week," Elliot muttered."Seeing all those doctors and trying to deal with the news they gave you… Of course you were distraught and desperate…"

Elliot felt helplessness setting in; each excuse he could think of for why George was mistaken, why he was, in fact, perfectly healthy, was quickly quashed in his head. Surely everything he could think of, George had thought of as well.

"You look fine!" he said again, in a desperate last-ditch attempt. "You've always been the healthiest man on the planet- how is this even possible? And what is it that you're dying _from_, anyway?"

"I guess my luck ran out," George said, sniffing slightly. "Like you said, I was always incredibly healthy, even when I was a child. But not anymore, I guess." He turned again, looking out the window with a distant look in his eyes, and admitted, "They diagnosed me with pancreatic cancer. Stage IV. The tumor's already too big for them to operate on, and none of the other treatments will work- at best, they'll just buy me time. There isn't anything they can do except give me palliative care to hopefully help me live a little longer and make me comfortable- or as close to it as they can get. Even with aggressive chemotherapy and radiation, I'll be lucky if I live to see another six months..."

George breathed slowly, each exhale barely audible. Then he gave a sigh and shook his head, and the mingled despair, fear, weariness, and beginnings of resignation on George's face made him look years older. He looked worn and defeated. The look was absolutely heartbreaking.

And when the silent tears began to streak down George's face, Elliot had to use every ounce of willpower he had not to cry with him.

George spoke, his voice hoarse, high-pitched, and broken from his tears. "I didn't have any symptoms at all. None_._ But then, last week, I suddenly got the worst stomach pain imaginable… It felt- god, it felt like my stomach was just _exploding_. I thought my appendix must have ruptured, so I called an ambulance, and they drove me to the hospital."

George had to stop for several moments; he was crying hard enough that breathing was difficult, and speaking was close to impossible. Eventually he managed to control his breathing, preventing the tears from making him hyperventilate. Taking a steadying breath, he slowly continued, "They gave me some pain medicine, and they did some tests… X-ray, MRI, and all that. A nurse and I were just going through the necessary paperwork to admit me overnight, when a doctor came back with the results. I-I could tell from the look on his face that it was serious, so I braced myself for the worst. But that still didn't prepare me for what he said. Stage IV pancreatic cancer, already beginning to metastasize to nearby lymph nodes. I'm a doctor; I'm not supposed to be a patient, especially not for something like this…"

"I… I'm so sorry," Elliot whispered. "Is there anything I can do?"

Of course there wasn't, he chided himself. What comfort could he possibly offer to anyone in this situation, let alone a man who he had fought with so much for the last several years?

"Thank you for the offer, but there isn't anything I can think of," George whispered. Then, suddenly, he balled his hands into fists and cried, "I don't understand! I didn't have any symptoms at all- how is it possible that it was already that bad by the time I started having pain? Why didn't anything alert me before it got this serious? If there was a tumor in my pancreas, I should have noticed it!"

He shook his head. "There must have been _something, _some symptomI missed! But I can't think of anything, anything at all. I know that this is one of those diseases that is almost never noticed until it's too late, but still… it makes no sense. Doctors aren't supposed to die like this!"

"George, I… I…"

Elliot had never run away from anything or anyone before. He had been a Marine, a police officer. He had walked fearlessly into life-or-death situations.

So why was he turning his back on George and all but sprinting out of the apartment, without a word?

It felt like his body was on auto-pilot. Nothing in his world felt real; his peripheral vision was decreased, his heart was pounding. His breath was coming in ragged pants.

He didn't need his years as a Marine to recognize adrenaline excess. Panic. Flight-or-fight. His job had always been to protect those close to him, but this time, even though there was danger to someone he cared about, there was nothing he could do. So when terror at losing him struck, his body chose flight.

And there was the fact that his sanity wouldn't let him deal with the thought of losing George. Not now, not ever.

Surely this was a nightmare, like the ones that so often haunted him after terrible cases. He didn't often dream about people close to him being in situations like this, but then again, it wasn't unheard-of for him.

He paused at the outside wall of the apartment. There was one thing that was guaranteed to wake him up from a nightmare, if this was one.

He hit the wall with all his strength. Then he hit it again, and again, and again, waiting for his body to jolt and for him to see he was alone in bed, tangled in his sheets. He felt like he would have given everything he had in the world for it to just be a dream; he wanted it with all his heart and soul.

But nothing happened. When the skin finally broke and blood poured out, he finally had no choice but to allow reality to seep in, breaking the fog the adrenaline had placed over his mind and vision.

This was really happening. It seemed like something his brain would use to make his worst nightmares, but that wasn't the case.

This was real.

George had cancer. And he was going to be dead in less than a year.

And there was nothing Elliot could do about it. George was going to die a terrible death. He was going to go through so much pain, and his last days would be spent in agony, with George either unconscious- either an induced coma or a natural one- or in a delirium caused by pain and morphine and who knew what else. By the time George took his last breath, he'd be a mere shadow of himself.

Hot tears stung in Elliot's eyes. Images flashed in front of him: meeting George for the first time; the time George had asked him to simulate strangling him; those rare times when George smiled, actually smiled; the times when they agreed on a case and worked so well together; George's beautiful dark eyes shining, that spark of knowledge brightening them, and his low, deep voice explaining who they were looking for and what they needed to do…

He also saw all the fights they'd had; the time he had tricked George into medicating Kevin Walker and had become the first, and so far only, person to be screamed at by George. The time George had taken him off a case because Elliot wouldn't open up. The times when he had scoffed at George's 'psychobabble'. The time he had chosen to help Olivia instead of a young boy, and had cost the boy his life, and going to talk to George, but had walked out feeling more confused and guilty than ever. The time his insistence on interviewing Matthew Brodus had not only led to re-traumatizing a victim, it had almost gotten George killed.

Suddenly, Elliot felt furious with himself. All those times he had fought with George, and he had never taken a moment to think about trying to improve their relationship. He had never realized how good he had it, how lucky he was that George hadn't just given up on him and instead had continued to care about him, despite everything. He had taken George for granted. True, he had no way of knowing that this would happen, or that there was so little time to get to know George on a deeper level, and it wasn't as though George himself had been perfect, but still, he should have realized sooner how blessed he was to know someone as infinitely patient and compassionate as George.

Elliot hung his head against the wall helplessly. He could save victims, but he couldn't seem to do anything right when it came to loved ones. Kathy had grown tired of his anger and left him. His kids were distant, feeling hurt at the fact that he consistently chose work over them. He had almost ruined his friendship with Olivia, had made her switch partners, even, and had only barely realized it in time. And now George. He had fought with the man for so long, nearly ruined any chance of getting close to him, and now George was dying. Elliot could apologize and confess everything he was thinking and feel right now, but no matter what he tried, it would feel like an act driven by pity more than anything. And if there was one thing Elliot knew for sure about George, it was that he hated being pitied for any reason. It was too late now, too late for Elliot to turn over a new leaf with George and try to get close to him.

He wanted to scream. He probably would have, had his throat not already become sore from crying. He thought of George, always so dedicated, even with people who Elliot saw as criminals but George saw as someone worthy of compassion, because of their mental state.

Then his mind conjured terrible, horrifying images: George, lying in a hospital bed, thin and pale, barely alive. A respirator tube in his mouth, IV's poking out of almost every vein in his arms and legs. And the sound of a heart-rate monitor beeping rapidly, and then finally flatlining.

He shuddered heavily, goosebumps appearing on his arms. It was almost too much for him to think about, but it was going to be reality far too soon. There was nothing he could do, nothing at all-

"Detec- Elliot?" George asked breathlessly, coming to a stop beside him.

Elliot blinked, startled, and hastily wiped the remaining tears from his eyes. George was kind enough not to comment. Once the tears were gone, Elliot said, "I didn't hear you jogging up here."

"Sorry. You were- still are, I think- distraught, and I wanted to make sure you were okay," George said softly.

"No need to be sorry," Elliot said, waving him off. "I appreciate the concern. Sorry to make you come out all this way, though, I didn't mean to do that…"

"It's all right," George said. Elliot could hear the frustration in his voice, and quickly figured out that George didn't like Elliot's concern for him- it was clear in Elliot's voice that when he had said he hadn't wanted George to chase him, he had meant he was worried about George getting tired- and felt like it was unneeded, at least for now.

"Um…" Elliot didn't know what to say. Words eluded him. "I… I just couldn't… I couldn't handle it," He finally said, a little sheepishly. He rubbed at the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"That's understandable," George said. "It's only natural, with what I told you… And then there was the fact that I was an emotional wreck." He sounded bitter. "It would be upsetting for anyone, especially considering we have been co-workers for ten years."

"George, you have more than enough reason to be upset. You don't have to feel bad about losing your stoicism for a few minutes around me," Elliot said. "You have to let it out sometime. It's no better than what I do; bottling it up isn't okay for you either." It was odd, he thought, how he said the words, and believed them, and yet, he didn't truly believe they applied to himself- just George.

"I suppose. It's just hard, because, honestly, it has been hard to let my guard down around you. I'm afraid you'll lose respect for me," George admitted. "It took me so long to get even a little from any of you, and you were always even more resentful than the others. I couldn't give an inch, or I'd end up losing a mile."

"I respect you!" Elliot said indignantly. He stumbled a little. "I mean, I know I don't show it very well, but I do respect you no matter what, Doc, I really do."

"Thanks," George said softly, a gentle smile forming on his face. He was truly touched by the words; they meant more than he could describe to him.

But the moment couldn't last forever; other, darker thoughts quickly overpowered the fleeting happiness. He sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets absently, gazing across the street.

"George?" Elliot asked tentatively. "Have you… told anyone else yet?"

"My colleagues at the FBI, and some close friends and family," George said. "No one with the NYPD, though; you're the first one I told. I'm going to tell them soon, though- probably tomorrow."

"Do you… Um… Do you want me to be there?" Elliot asked uncomfortably. "I mean, I'll be there anyway, but you know what I mean- there to support you, I guess."

George gave a small, sad smile. "Thank you. I would appreciate that."

Silence reigned for a long moment. Then George sighed quietly and said, "Well, I'd better get back. I have a lot to think about and some things I need to plan."

"Yeah," Elliot said. "Let me know if I can do anything to help, okay?"

"I will," George said with a nod. He turned to walk away.

"Wait, George," Elliot said. George turned around, and Elliot paused, unsure of why he had even called out in the first place. Finally, after fighting the impulse futilely for a second, he set his hand on George's shoulder. That was the most contact he gave other men, usually, and he very rarely did it at all. But he couldn't ignore the impulse to show some comforting physical gesture, no matter how small it was. "Would… Would you like me to give you a ride tomorrow?"

George thought for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose so, yes. Thank you. That would be nice, actually."

"Okay then," Elliot said. He took his hand off George's shoulder. "Take it easy, Doc."

"You too," George said. He sighed, looking downwards. "See you tomorrow."

"See you," Elliot murmured.

George walked away, and Elliot began walking to his car. He felt strangely numb and detached, as though he was witnessing reality but outside his body. He was aware of what was around him, but he didn't comprehend any of it.

He finally decided to drive home. The route was so familiar to him that he was confident he could drive there in his sleep.

The sun was setting by the time he arrived at his own apartment. He walked inside and sat on his sofa, closing his eyes. George's words seemed lodged in his skull, bouncing around endlessly but not sinking in. His own thoughts and emotions joined the fray, leaving him feeling dazed.

Finally, he decided to call it an early night, but he knew, as he crawled into bed, that he would either get no sleep at all, or his sleep would be extremely uneasy.

"I'm so, so sorry, George," he whispered as he closed his eyes. "This is so fucked up. How am I supposed to just stand back and watch you die?"

He made a vow, as he opened his eyes again to stare at the ceiling; he wouldn't. He wouldn't just sit back and watch George die; he would do something. He wouldn't be able to protect George with his badge and gun like he had been able to do for everyone else, but he would help George any way he could.

Elliot took slow, steadying breaths, not calming down completely but coming close. It wasn't much, but it was all he could do for George. He just hoped it would be close to enough.

"In sickness and in health, I guess," Elliot whispered to the ceiling. "Who knew that that vow applied for the doc and me, too?"

He smiled sadly. It was the truth. Even if George- and Elliot himself, really- didn't know how Elliot felt about him, Elliot was determined to take care of George, come hell or high water.

He just had to figure out how.


	3. Anxiety

A/N: My beta is in the middle of a move, so I decided to go ahead and post this. That being said, I'm not too sure about how I feel about this chapter. It's mixed emotions, because I like the way I've written George and Elliot, but it feels a little repetitive and like there's something missing. Then again, I'm always critical of my writing. *Laughs* Please let me know what you think, so that I know if I have it right or if I need to change something! Reviews are not only cool to see, they can be very helpful!

Here's chapter three. *Gives Kleenex to all readers*

George found himself unable to think. It wasn't that he didn't have anything to think about, but that he had so much that he couldn't focus on one thought at a time.

First, there was Elliot. He had never known Elliot to be this concerned with anyone other than his family and Olivia. The fact that Elliot had been so afraid for him made him feel a combination of guilt, happiness, shock, and embarrassment. The shock because Elliot cared, the guilt and embarrassment for causing Elliot so much worry, and the happiness because it _was _nice to know Elliot cared about him. He also felt ashamed for losing his composure in front of him, but then again, Elliot had assured him that he hadn't lost respect for him. But how could respect be lost if it wasn't there in the first place? Elliot had said that he respected George, but actions spoke louder than words, and he just wasn't sure if it was pity or something real.

He hoped that telling the rest of the squad would be easier than telling Elliot; he hoped it wouldn't be so emotional. It would be awful, to be sure, but he hoped they didn't react the way Elliot had. He didn't want to comfort them about his own impending death. He knew it sounded selfish, but he knew he had to put himself first for once. He couldn't afford to use energy he didn't have on that sort of thing; he needed to use it to do the important things. Set his affairs in order, prepare himself for the months to come, and try to get through the treatment for as long as he could.

Already, George could feel the physical effects of his illness, though his emotions probably contributed, too. In addition to the on-and-off nausea and vomiting, he was tired, physically and mentally. He hadn't been sleeping well since the dreaded words had left his doctor's mouth- every time he went to sleep, he was afraid he'd never wake up again.

When he did succeed in falling asleep, he had horrible nightmares that left him shaking in bed, drenched in sweat and heart beating like a drum, and he'd wake up exhausted, any energy he may have gained while asleep lost to the physical and mental exertion the nightmare caused. And there was the terrible stomach pain, which would ease for a while and then return randomly and at full force. He tried not to use any of the painkillers he'd been prescribed, wanting to keep a clear head for as long as possible, but there had already been several occasions where he had had no choice but to take the fentanyl.

He sighed and walked to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. Even though he wasn't hungry, he knew he had to eat. When he started chemo, he'd barely be able to keep anything down, and he'd lose a lot of weight as his illness progressed. He had to keep his weight up while he could.

Once the sandwich was made, he returned to the living room and sat down on his favorite recliner. He closed his eyes, trying to plan what he would say and do tomorrow.

It was hard, planning for his own death. If he was elderly and had lived a full life, he might be okay with dying- although even then, he wouldn't be okay with how much pain he'd be in until he died- but he was still so young, and there was so much he hadn't done yet. He just wasn't ready.

He leaned back and turned on his television, hoping that it would help to distract him somewhat. He knew he'd be getting little to no sleep tonight, so distracting himself and feeling relaxed for a while was probably the best he could hope for.

The mind-numbing children's cartoon he turned on had the desired effect, and soon he was smiling in spite of himself at the character's antics. His worries weren't forgotten, but they had been pushed to the back of his mind.

When he finally felt a little more relaxed- almost upbeat, even- he once again tried to plan things out, hoping that that would be enough to enable him to think ahead without losing it.

He'd already informed his co-workers at the FBI and his superiors; they all had expressed concern and sympathy, offering to help him if he needed it. It made perfect sense, in a dark way, that the one thing he needed help with was the one thing where no one could help him. Their company would be a great comfort to him, and he'd appreciate having someone there for him, but the hardest challenges, the ones where he'd need the most support, were those he would have to face completely alone.

George sighed quietly and leaned back, closing his eyes. Those dark thoughts had been consuming him all week, and nothing he did seemed to stop them for very long. Even when he managed to distract himself, if he tried to objectively plan things out, the dark thoughts intruded. He had always been able to distance himself from just about everything before this, but for this was different.

He felt so _exhausted_, physically and mentally. And if he felt this bad already, he didn't even want to think about how bad it would get… later. He couldn't bring himself to use phrases like, "At the end," even if he only said them in his head.

Eventually, George managed to doze lightly, but only for a half-hour or so at a time. When the time came for him to get ready for work, he was feeling completely drained, and he struggled to work up enough energy to get off the sofa.

At least he didn't have to drive, he thought with a yawn. He pushed himself up and walked to the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee. He was relatively sure he remembered Elliot preferring his coffee black, but he decided he would get his sugar, milk, and half-and-half out just in case.

Rubbing his eyes, he retreated from the room and walked to his bathroom. He finished his shower in less than ten minutes, and compensated by taking his time on everything else.

By the time he was dressed, it was about time for Elliot to show up- or, at least, what he thought it was time for Elliot to show up at. He remembered, somewhat sheepishly, that he'd forgotten to mention a time to Elliot. But it didn't matter that much, anyway. At worst, he'd be a little early or a little late- no big deal.

He opened a bag of bagels and got a container of cream cheese out, and then got the coffee ready. Just as he finished, a knock came from the front door.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he walked to the front door and opened it, greeted by the sight of Elliot standing awkwardly in the doorframe. "Hello, Detective," he said.

"Hey, Doc," Elliot said, giving a small smile.

"Come in; I made some coffee," George offered.

"Oh, thanks," Elliot said, surprised. "You didn't have to do that."

George shrugged. "It's not that big of a deal. And it's better than that heartburn in a cup they call coffee at the precinct."

Elliot chuckled, a little awkwardly. "Very true."

George stood back to let Elliot in, feeling both bemused and a little happy at the small talk. It was awkward, sure, but better than the conversation that would be happening in an hour or so.

"You hungry?" George asked, gesturing to the bagels.

"Actually, yeah, I am," Elliot admitted. "Thanks."

George nodded and sat down, pouring some milk into his own coffee and taking a slow sip. He didn't bother grabbing a bagel; he wasn't hungry in the slightest.

After noticing Elliot's curious and more than a little worried gaze, he sighed and set his mug down. "I'm not hungry, Elliot. It's nothing to be alarmed about, so please don't worry."

"Is that because of-" Elliot began, feeling nervousness settling in his stomach.

George cut him off. "Yes, it is, and like I said, it really is no cause for concern. Even before starting chemotherapy, most pancreatic cancer patients report a decreased appetite. It's to be expected. Please don't make a fuss about it."

He sounded much snippier than he meant to, and he felt guilty the instant the words left his mouth. "I'm sorry, Elliot, I didn't mean it like that," he said before Elliot had a chance to speak. "I just don't like being reminded of it, and… I don't want pity or anyone making a fuss over me." He looked into his coffee cup to avoid Elliot's gaze, tilting it to the side and watching the liquid swish around.

"Hey, George, I meant what I said yesterday," Elliot said softly.

George looked up and saw a gentle expression on his face, one he wasn't used to seeing. It looked like the face Elliot might use to soothe a child, and George wasn't sure if he liked having that expression directed at him or not.

"You don't have to act all tough; you can let your walls down," Elliot finished.

George frowned and studied Elliot for a moment. Then he sighed, fiddling with his coffee cup. "It isn't about playing tough, Detective-"

"Elliot. Please," Elliot said.

"Elliot. It isn't about pretending to be tough. I just…" George huffed slightly. How could he explain it?

"I know what's in store for me," he finally said, painfully. "And there's going to come a time when I'm going to be… helpless." He left that description vague, not wanting to even think about, let alone vocalize, the exact details. He didn't want to think about the fact that there would come a time when he wouldn't be able to accomplish even the most basic of tasks on his own, and would be entirely reliant on other people to help him. For some things, he'd probably even need a machine to support him.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he continued, "And I want to hold that off for as long as possible. If that means ignoring my emotions so that I only have to worry about my physical health, so be it."

"That really doesn't sound like you, George," Elliot said quietly. "I mean, I know where you're coming from, I get that your physical health comes first, but you're a shrink. Your mental health should be just as important to you." He had known George to be stoic, but to go as far as to repress his emotions just wasn't George.

It reminded Elliot of himself- which, he knew from experience, meant that what George was doing wasn't exactly healthy. Elliot didn't like admitting it, but he had come to accept that he wasn't good at using healthy coping skills.

George took a deep breath as he thought about how to word his thoughts. "Elliot, when I talk to a victim we've found, or a mentally ill perp, I'm trying to help them with their mental problems so they can move on with their lives."

"And?" Elliot prompted reluctantly, already knowing what direction George was heading in and not liking it at all.

"_And_, that's exactly it. I help them with their lives. Their futures_. _I don't _have _a future, Elliot," George said brokenly. His throat constricted painfully, and he had to use every ounce of willpower to stop tears from falling. After yesterday, he couldn't afford to show that much emption again. "I don't have a future for my mental health to affect. It doesn't matter if I bottle everything up, or if I explode at everyone, or if I do something else that's incredibly unhealthy, because it's already too late. By the time it catches up with me I'll either be dead or I'll have one foot in the grave with the other slipping."

Elliot swallowed hard, hating the way those words sounded coming from George. The words were close to heartbreaking to him.

"But, George, you don't have to do that. If not me, you can talk to someone else, and I know there are a lot of people who like and respect you and would jump at the chance to help you if asked," Elliot protested. "You always help everyone else, and I know I'm not the only one who wants to be there for you."

George let out a shaky breath. "I suppose you're right. I'll think about it- but that's all I can promise for now. I don't want to think about this right now, okay?" He requested, a little desperately. If he could keep up his illusion of strength a little longer, it would at least get him through the adjustment stage. Then he could, and would, show his vulnerability safely while not worrying that it would harm him. If he let himself be vulnerable now, he might not be able to get through all the painful treatments and procedures ahead of him; he might give up on them sooner than he would otherwise. This way, he could survive until he knew it was safe and he knew that someone would be there to help him emotionally, and maybe physically.

"Alright," Elliot relented, accepting that there was no use in arguing with George right now. He glanced at the clock on George's oven and said, "We should get going, or we're going to be late."

"Okay," George said, anxiety making his voice a whisper. Elliot decided it would be more tactful to pretend not to have noticed.

They stood up and walked to the door. George opened it and let Elliot walk through first.

George's heart was hammering in his chest. He couldn't help it; it felt like he was walking to his death. Telling his colleagues that he had less than six months to live… It felt like saying the words would make him die right then. And even if he managed to shake himself of that feeling, there was still the knowledge that this would be closing a chapter in his life. Or, more like, finishing the main story and reading the epilogue, glossary, and other pages before closing the cover entirely.

As he got in Elliot's car and fastened his seatbelt, he wondered about what reactions each of his team members would give. Olivia would be extremely emotional, but she would hide it until he had left, for his sake. And then, when she felt calmer, she'd probably go through the standard offering of help and support should he need it.

Fin and Munch would probably be surprised and saddened, but without showing much of it, and they would wish him the best and promise to keep him in their thoughts. Munch always preferred to lighten things up, as it was his coping mechanism, but Munch was tactful and would use his discretion to avoid making a major faux pas. Captain Cragen would be solemn but kind, offering some kind words and a hand on his shoulder.

And that left Alex. They had been close ever since he'd joined the Special Victims Unit team, and he knew she'd be devastated. But she wasn't called the Ice Queen for nothing; she would hold it all in and pretend it wasn't affecting her. She'd be fiercely loyal throughout the whole ordeal, but she'd act completely emotionless.

George leaned back, closing his eyes. Why did he have to be the one to tell everyone? Maybe he could back out and give the task to Elliot instead.

But he shook the thought out of his head. It was only fair that he told them himself, in person. It would be easier on them if it came from him and he wasn't about to duck out.

He watched the buildings through the car window. He'd long ago memorized each and every one that appeared on the routes to the one-six and the FBI building, and thus it didn't really matter if he focused on them or not. All he registered was that he was getting closer and closer to the first of what would be many nigh impossible tasks in front of him. And yet, telling the others was still going to be the easiest part.

"We're here, George," Elliot announced quietly as he pulled into the sixteenth precinct's parking lot. "Do you want a minute to gather yourself before we go in?"

George nodded, finding himself unable to speak. He took slow, deep breaths.

"You'll be okay, George," Elliot murmured, even though he knew it was an empty promise. He reached his hand out and set it on George's shoulder and decided to say something that was, at least, truthful. "You can do this."

George swallowed and reached a hand up to awkwardly pat at Elliot's, and was surprised when Elliot didn't shrug it off like he would have done otherwise. He decided to attribute it to the stress he was under, which Elliot might be feeling too. "I know," he said. His voice was slightly cracked, so he cleared his throat and repeated, "I know."

Unable to keep it bundled in, he admitted, "I'm just so scared. I can't help it." He didn't like admitting it to Elliot, but then again, Elliot had said he'd be there and hadn't since done or said anything to prove otherwise. He didn't want to show much more emotion than that, like he had last night, but as long as it was just a little, it was okay.

Elliot squeezed his shoulder. "I know you are. But I'm here for you and everyone else will be, too, once you tell them."

"Thank you so much, Elliot. That means a lot to me, more than I can say," George said. Even though he'd already said it last night, he wanted Elliot to know he meant it.

"No problem, George. As long as you're okay; that's all that matters," Elliot said softly. George nodded, and there was a moment of silence.

"Well, better to get it over with now," Elliot said, setting a hand on the car door. "The sooner that gets done, the sooner you can regroup."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," George agreed, following suit.

As they stepped out and began walking to the entrance, though, Elliot watched George and became concerned that George might not be able to go through with it. He didn't say anything, but he knew that George was struggling with the anxiety.

"I'm fine, Elliot," George said as he caught Elliot's glance, though it was actually for himself more than it was for Elliot. He had to stay strong.

George set his hand on one of the doors and hesitated for a long moment before entering the building. "Here goes nothing," he thought.

Elliot took a long breath. Things were only going to get worse from here on out; there was no use denying it.

A million wishes and what-ifs ran through Elliot's head, but he pushed them aside. This was reality, there was no use pretending otherwise. All he could do was be there for George and hope that that would be enough for the both of them.


	4. A New Leaf

A/N: I'm not sure how many of you are still reading this one- this is easily the least popular of my G/E stories- but here's an update for those who do like it. Please give me feedback if you think I can improve!

* * *

><p>George kept his head down as he and Elliot walked to the elevator. He looked at the floor, watching their feet and the tiles of the floor- anything to avoid having to meet someone else's gaze.<p>

No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't think of a way to tell the detectives. When he rehearsed in his head, he either sounded too casual, or he dragged it out for too long. The way he'd told Elliot had been bad enough; he didn't want to put the rest of them through that.

Finally, the elevator doors opened and they walked in. They were silent as the elevator ascended several floors, until they reached their destination and walked out. He saw Elliot mouth something to him, but the words didn't register. His palms started sweating, heart pounding in his chest.

"Hey, Doc!" Olivia called from her desk. "You feeling better?"

George didn't know what to say. Saying yes would be a lie, and one that he would contradict within a few minutes. Saying no would alarm her, and would put more pressure on him to explain what was wrong quickly, like when he'd talked to Elliot yesterday.

He sighed, sliding his hands into his pants pockets and stepping just a little closer to Elliot, little enough so that no one would notice. He knew that subconsciously, he was identifying with Elliot since he was the only one here, besides him, who knew.

"I'm not sure," he told her truthfully. Even though he knew it was to be expected, he still didn't feel right. His abdomen was sore and he felt nauseous and fatigued. "Well enough to be here, though." Even if all he did today was tell them what was happening, he would still try to continue working in between the treatments, until he was too sick to be able to anymore. He wanted to keep his mind occupied for as long as possible.

"What were you sick with last week?" Olivia asked. Fin and Munch looked up, interested.

"I…" He trailed off, biting his lip.

Captain Cragen opened the door to his office, holding a piece of paper. "Munch, Fin, you got a case- Doc? I didn't think we needed a profile right now. Not that I'm not happy to see you back, of course."

"I just, I … I had something I had to say," George muttered, just barely loud enough for them to hear.

"What's going on?" Don asked softly.

George inhaled deeply. "When I was sick last week, I… Well, I…"

He couldn't do this. Not with everyone's eyes on him, not when he could barely stand to think about it himself. Not when Elliot had reacted so emotionally- and Elliot had been the least close to him. Olivia was one of his best friends, after Alex, and he was close to Don and Fin too. If Elliot, who had always seemed to despise him, had been so upset that he'd had to run away, how would the others react? And he still had to tell Alex and Casey after this.

He swallowed, deciding to give it one more try.

"When I was sick last week," he said again, "At one point, I had severe abdominal pain and it was bad enough that I had to go to the hospital." A memory flashed in his head as he spoke, from when he'd told his sister a few days earlier.

_He lay in bed, utterly shocked, phone still hanging from his hand. Six months? He had been so sure the hospital had been wrong._

_Justin, one of his best friends, had been his last hope, but his inability to articulate said everything. The other oncologists had been right- he had six months to live, probably less. In the span of a week he had gone from perfectly healthy, or so he thought, to being diagnosed with terminal cancer. No matter how much he thought about it, his mind couldn't make sense of it._

_He blinked back tears, feeling more fragile and hopeless than he ever had before. He clutched the phone and dialed his sister's number, desperate to hear her voice. He would have called his parents, but they had been estranged for several years. It was just him and his siblings, and he was much closer to his sister than his brother. His brother was cold and callous at times, where his sister was warm and loving. He needed to talk to _her _right now, needed her to soothe him. If she didn't answer…_

_"Hello?"_

_George bit his lip. "Michelle?" he whispered._

_"George, what's wrong?" she asked. George almost smiled; they were so in tune with each other than just one word was enough for them to know what the other was feeling._

_"Michelle, I… I…"_

_And then he closed his eyes and the words escaped him against his will, all in a rush. "Michelle, I'm going to die! I had this awful stomach pain and I went to the hospital, and then a doctor came and told me that I was dying, and I asked three different people for a second opinion, and they all told me that it was right and I have six months to live! I'm dying of pancreatic cancer, Michelle, and I don't understand how or why!"_

_Her reaction mirrored his own. Silence, then denial, then an unsuccessful attempt to stay calm and some poorly-concealed tears._

_"No, that can't-" she whispered. "George, I… I… How?-" She stumbled over herself, trying to decide what to do._

_"I- I, okay, I'll come over there soon to talk about this, okay?" she stammered. It was the best idea she could think of._

_And George nodded, and then, remembering that he was on the phone, whispered, "Okay."_

_Time seemed to stop for George until Michelle arrived. He threw himself at her when she came in, hugging her desperately. She held him tight for a few minutes before they walked inside his apartment._

_"You're my baby brother," she whispered after George got her settled in. "I don't care that you're in your late forties, you're still my baby brother. I- I promised mom and dad that I would protect you, the day you were born. I can't- I can't lose you, not like this-"_

_George hugged her tightly, unsure of what to say, and silence reigned as they both struggled to accept what was happening._

_"I'll do what I can," Michelle said after a long pause. "It probably won't be much, but I'll do my best to- to help you and make this-"_

_"I can't do this, Michelle," George said, voice cracked from the tears that were about to fall. "I'm scared, I'm- I-"_

_He shivered. "I don't want to talk about this anymore, please, just-" But he latched onto her and broke down, and she broke down with him. They were so lost, so afraid, so helpless._

_It took hours for them to collect themselves enough to try to figure out where they were going to go from there._

George inhaled sharply. No matter how many times he said it, it didn't get any easier. He wished Michelle was with him right now to lend her support; he desperately needed someone to help him. She had been absolutely devastated by the news, as had his brother, Michael, but they had still both promised to be there for him.

This was only going to get harder the longer he waited, he thought. He steadied himself. "When I was at the hospital, I was diagnosed with-" He swallowed, trying to force the words out- "I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. And it's too far advanced for treatment to be able to do anything. They don't think I-I have all that long left. Six months, maybe."

He could feel their eyes on him, and he could see their expressions of shock and dismay without looking at them.

"I'm going to keep working here for as long as I can, which will be, at least, a few months," George said. "And after that… I don't know, but- there's a little time, at least…"

No one said anything back. The silence got to be too much.

George swallowed hard, whispered, "I'm sorry," and turned on his heels, keeping his head down as he retreated to the hallway.

A stunned silence reigned, broken only by Elliot saying, "I'm going to go talk to him." Elliot hurried after him, desperate to help.

"George!" Elliot called, sprinting to catch up to him. "George, wait!" George stopped, but still looked like he might run any second.

"I can't do this," George whispered when Elliot caught up. He was trembling and breathing unevenly. He thought of Michelle and the rest of his family, of his friends in the squad room and from other places. How could he leave them? He couldn't. He wasn't ready. He hadn't ever been given a reason to expect that he wouldn't live a full and happy life and now he was preparing for his own death- there was no way he could do this.

"George, I… It can't be easy, I know that, but you _can _do this. You just- you just need to, you know, find a support system," Elliot said, though he didn't have the least confidence in his words. He sighed. "I'm talking out of my ass. But George, please-"

"Don't," George said sharply, shaking his head. "I don't want to hear it." Anger suddenly rose in him. Elliot had never cared about him before- why would he now except for _that_? He hated feeling coddled and that was exactly what Elliot was doing. He may have felt devastated over his situation but that didn't mean he wanted Elliot to start pitying him and treating him like a child.

"George, what-" Elliot began dumbly. He understood why George wouldn't want to hear the psychology, but he didn't understand the hostility behind his words. That just wasn't George.

"You're only doing this because you feel sorry for me!" George all but yelled. "You're mad that we fought before and now that you know there's no time left, you're trying to make it right so you can feel better. You think that just talking to me is going to make it all okay. You don't even care- you still hate me just like you always have. You just want to assuage your own conscience."

The words stung. Elliot shook his head desperately, refusing to believe them. Maybe _part _of it was his own guilt, but just as much of it was genuinely wanting to help George. And Elliot hating him!- Elliot shook his head again. He didn't, and he never had. They'd never gotten along, but that didn't mean hate- did it? George couldn't think that. If he did, Elliot might never be able to convince him otherwise. And if George died thinking Elliot despised him… The thought physically hurt and made him sick to his stomach. He had to fix this, he thought desperately, he had to.

He had to get George to believe him, but how? Words weren't nearly enough, not now.

"George," Elliot said, desperate, "Please, please believe me. We never got along because our personalities are so different, but I don't hate you. Like I said earlier- I respect you. I was always an ass to you, but that doesn't mean I hated you. Please, can we just try to make this right? I care, I really do. I'm not doing this just for me. No one deserves to go through what you're going through, and thinking they're alone and that people hate them. I promise, all our arguments before were just professional conflicts, it was never personal. Well, it was never really personal."

George didn't reply. He just shook his head and folded his arms over his chest. He couldn't figure out any motivation for Elliot's actions except pity and wanting to assuage his own guilt. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn't believe Elliot liked him.

After a long moment, he said, "Fine." He still didn't trust Elliot completely, but he didn't want to argue about it.

"George…" Elliot trailed off, biting his lip. "I, I don't want you to think- I mean-" He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts out. "I don't know how to say this…"

"What, Elliot?" George asked wearily. "Just try."

"I… Please, can we just try to be friends?" Elliot asked. It wasn't what he wanted to say, but that was the best he could hope for right now. He had to start small. "We had been getting along a little better last night and this morning. I care and it isn't just pity; I care about you as you, a person who I respect even if I didn't show it before and I don't want to have to go through hell alone. I want to be there for you and it isn't about me at all. Please?"

"Elliot," George whispered, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. He swallowed and opened his eyes again to look at Elliot. "I thought you all hated me," he said painfully. "Even in the last few years I just thought you all just tolerated me. I was always an outsider, a fed, and I always disagreed with you. I only ever felt close with Casey and Alex, and it was only a little while ago that I started feeling okay with Don, Fin, Munch, and Olivia. But with you, that just never happened. I tried being nice, I tried being aggressive, I tried staying out of you way; I tried everything but you never warmed up to me like the others did. I knew you'd feel something about this- you aren't heartless- but I didn't think you'd be this upset. I didn't think you'd be the most emotional of everyone."

Elliot exhaled slowly. "I don't really have any excuses to offer. I decided I hated shrinks after one almost got me fired for saying I fantasized about killing pedophiles and I wasn't about to give you a fair chance after that happened. And when you disagreed with me so often it infuriated me. I wasn't used to being contradicted so much. The Walker case only cemented that, really. I never understood why you were placing Walker over the life of that boy. And when you turned out to be right about it threatening my career, it only made me angrier. I blamed you for it.

"And then there was the cult where the leader killed all the children. I _needed _to work that case, George. I needed to look into that bastard's eyes and make sure he never spent another day as a free man. I was coping so well, or so I thought- the problem was always my anger, so it seemed like the fix was not to show any emotion at all, right? But that wasn't good enough for you and you and Don sent me home. That was the closest I ever came to hating you.

"But… I still respected a lot of things about you, even if I never said it. I respected how calm and stoic you could be, how the cases never seemed to get you. I respected how smart you are and what a good psychiatrist you are. It was just that I never appreciated you as much as I should've." Elliot sighed, looking down for a moment and shuffling his feet. "I'm sorry, that's all I can say. I should have tried harder, I should have treated you better. I can't take that back. But if you give me the chance, I'll make it right."

"I'm not blameless in this," George said softly. "There were times when I provoked you. I wasn't used to having my opinion contradicted either; I was used to police officers trusting my opinion completely. And I shouldn't have screamed at you during the Walker case, no matter how angry I was. I should have given you another chance before I threw you off the case with the cult, too. I never tried to just understand you, I only tried to get you to understand me. I'm sorry."

"Can we turn over a new leaf?" Elliot asked. "I really… I want to be your friend." He cared deeper than that, but if a friend was what George needed, that was what he'd be. Elliot wanted more, but he had to make it about George- George was the one who needed support, not him.

George smiled weakly. "I'd like to. I liked being with you this morning and I hope you know I'd do the same for you. You're a good person, Elliot."

"Thank you," Elliot murmured, touched. He set his hand on George's shoulder and squeezed gently. "You are too."

George looked up at him. They gazed at each other for several seconds, neither of them moving a muscle.

Then George reached his hand up and patted Elliot's awkwardly. Elliot kept his hand on George's shoulder, not shying away from the physical contact- for once.

They stayed in place for what felt like an eternity. Slowly, though, George set Elliot's hand back down, never taking his eyes off him.

"I never hated you," Elliot whispered.

"I know. And I never hated you either," George replied. He let Elliot's arm go. "We're starting over. If I-" his voice wavered slightly- "If I'm going to die, I'm not going to let it happen like that. I'm not going to let anyone I know feel guilty for not having made amends. I see that tear my patients up all the time, where they think a loved one's death was their fault for doing something wrong, and I'm not letting any of my friends, family, or colleagues feel that way."

"Okay," Elliot murmured. He swallowed hard. He didn't know what else to say or do.

George looked towards the squad room. "I think we need to be getting back," he said softly. "I still have to talk to them and explain some things."

Elliot nodded. "Okay. I'm going to grab a soda real quick, so just tell them I'll be back in a minute. Do you want one?"

"No thanks," George said. He bit his lip. "Thank you- for everything. I appreciate you being so kind and talking to me. I appreciate you caring enough to want to fix things. I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"You were stressed, George, it's okay. And it's no problem," Elliot said. "I appreciate you talking to me, and wanting to fix things, too."

George nodded. "Yeah… So, see you in a minute," George said. He turned around, returning to the squad room. He looked better than earlier, his posture not quite so terrified and defeated. He seemed… not exactly happy, but closer than he had been, and stronger and more hopeful.

"Good," Elliot thought, "I owe him that much." He gave a small smile.

But he felt wistful as he watched George walk away, a large part of him wishing that the moment hadn't ended. He wanted…

He sighed and shook his head. He couldn't think about that now. It would either happen or it wouldn't, and if it happened, he wanted it to be on George's terms.

But he still felt like he had to say something. Not now, but sooner or later.

As he walked to the vending machine to buy a Pepsi, he stayed deep in thought, trying to figure out how, exactly, he was going to tell George just how much he cared, and that he wanted to be with him- not just be with him, _be with him_- during his last months.

He shook his head, confused and pessimistic. Even if they just became friends, that was better than nothing, but that didn't mean he wanted to settle. There had to be some way, but he couldn't figure it out.

He looked at a clock hanging on a nearby wall. He couldn't believe that less than 24 hours earlier, he'd only had the vague worries in his head, not the knowledge of George's diagnosis.

It had taken no time at all for everything to fall apart, he thought. He'd gotten to rebuild some of it, but it wasn't enough.

He put his change in the machine and grabbed his selection, taking a long swig of soda. He took a few steps, trying to think.

He took his time walking back to the squad room.


End file.
